Little Poem #4

Widowed Dildo

Ejaculated dildo thrown out the window

Belonged long ago to a bride, whom now

A widow, who lazed and gazed out the window, she sighed “Dildo.”

The only pleasure, the

old widow, would treasure

– the dildo

The lonely dildo, blue, black and red, wept

As the widow’s forbidden zone fermented like bread.

X

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Little Poem that’s not so little, or a poem #3

T-he

He fucked up. I mean he really fucked up… and he knew it, but he just watched the lifeless corpse, that moments earlier was hurling words of hurt and truth towards him. He watched, observed how the blood made its way through the clothing. His head tilted. He began wondering and observing how the blood was hindered by the double stitching of what he imagined was a white shirt, “as white as a lie”… he thought… he grinned at that thought, thinking it was witty… then realized the thought made no sense. It upset him. He began to feel as though logic betrayed him again… The sounds of his thoughts began to anger him…sounding more and more like those of the corpse’s… Both, he thought, echoed… first off itslips to the walls of the room, then in his mind, his incoherent thoughts echoed deeper… His teeth now clenched… His head lowered, his heart beat grew faster and harder…Something he noticed as he stepped forward. It enraged him even more, that his heart is beating, that he can feel it, even more enraged now, as he remembered that he hated logic, but forgot why… He was full of hate… he took another step towards the dead. Then stopped. Again, he didn’t know why. He stood still, the stillness… the stillness even that, he was aware of, he compared it to the dead… Its almost as though he was playing a game now… who would move first… For a moment he stood there, lifeless… He felt nothing… heard nothing, knew nothing. He then burst out into hysterical laughter… “I’ve won!” he kept repeating, “I’ve won!”, then began hurling insults and teasing the dead body … and pointing to the blood as it moved closer. You moved. You see… I win. You moved…

X

Little Poem #1

Home

I had given Suffering, weary and drunk,

a place where it could rest its dead beat head.

 x

“Once inside you may find a bed…

It is the one with sheets washed and pressed,

and pyjamas, neatly folded, resting

as peaceful as the dead.”

 x

He smiled, not as clueless as he is toothless and said:

“Is it a dead man’s bed, where I shall rest by down-trodden head?”

 x

I turned to him and said:

“Would you rather care to share my bed?”

x